


George's Mission

by Sherlaufeyson



Category: Rock Music RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6032761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlaufeyson/pseuds/Sherlaufeyson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George is on a mission to find out the origin of Eric's nickname 'Slowhand'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	George's Mission

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this many years ago on Livejournal under a pseudonym, just in case anyone recognises it.

George woke up with a mission. Today he was going to figure out once and for all what the ridiculously, ambiguously vague nickname ‘Slowhand’ really meant. He’d known Eric now for three years and had heard of him by this name since before they had first met.

“Hey Eric,” George said jovially as the man entered the kitchen at Friar’s Park, “What’s this about the slow-hand clap I was hearing – were you that bad to begin with? Haha!”

George was met with a stony silence, but could see the faint traces of a blush grace the younger man’s cheeks. It intrigued him and he realised he would need to apply a bit more cunning to get to the bottom of the myth of ‘Slowhand’.

\-----------------------

By the blush, he presumed it may have a more personal connection so when Eric stayed over on the Wednesday, George ‘accidentally’ walked into the bathroom while Eric was taking a shower.

After some profusely muttered apologies, he backed out of the room with eyes as wide as saucepans and he decided, no, in no way was Slowhand a reference to his preferred manner of relieving morning tension.

\-----------------------

Racking his brains and deciding to return his ponderings to more musically oriented reasons for the moniker ‘Slowhand’, George snuck into Eric’s room and hid in the closet. He was there waiting for his friend to commence his guitar playing. It had absolutely nothing to do with being curious about a dry repeat of the morning’s performance, nor did it have anything to do with wanting to watch the way Eric’s eyes misted over as he caressed each guitar in turn, softly speaking to them as he chose one to play. George stayed sat there for three hours, hardly daring to breathe, until finally Eric left the room to get a drink. George decided based upon what he’d witnessed, that Eric’s fingers and hands moved just as quickly up and down the fretboard as they always did.

\--------------------

Next, he thought back to what Eric’s schooldays may have been like. He’d heard he was a loner, choosing to befriend snails in his garden. Perhaps his peers had called him ‘snail-hands’ in reference to the pong of snails on Eric’s hands – if, indeed snails did smell. Maybe ‘Snail-hands’ had morphed into ‘Slowhand’, with snails being slow and all. George told Patti to buy some escargot to prepare for dinner. He thought maybe Eric might shed some light on the topic.

Clearing his throat, he spoke to his friend, “So, Eric.”

“Yeah, George?” the guitarist replied.

“How do you like the food?” he asked.

“It’s not bad. What is it?”

“Escargot.” To clarify, he added, “Snails.”

“Oh.”

“Do snails smell?” asked George.

“What?”

“I heard you used to play with them. Do they smell?” George asked innocently.

“Um...I dunno. A bit maybe, I never smelt them.” Eric gave George a very funny look, and took a bite out of his bun as George lapsed back into silence to plan his next mode of interrogation.

\--------------------------------------------------

Eric continued eating in silence, musing over the actions of his host during the past 24 hours. George had been acting very oddly, and he wasn’t sure that it was purely down to post-Beatle break-up stress. He wondered if perhaps, his relationship with Patti was becoming strained. He had a feeling Patti was taking his own incessant staring, flirting and general behaviour around her the wrong way. Well, maybe not the wrong way, but certainly taking it to heart a bit more than he’d counted on. After all, if he didn’t appear to have a crush on Patti, what other excuse could he have to stay with them constantly?

His thoughts turned back to George’s behaviour. Perhaps he really was going around the twist. With all the stress from Apple, financial troubles and Paul and John’s constant bickering, which Eric knew had always had affected George’s mindset, maybe the pressures had just got too much and he’d finally snapped.

\----------------------------------------------------------

The silence was beginning to feel uncomfortable for George, and he’d already planned his next method of investigation which he was eager to try out – the direct approach.

“So Eric, where did the nickname ‘Slowhand’ come from?” he asked.

Again the adorable blush graced the younger man’s cheeks and he conveniently pointed to his mouth, now full, as an excuse not to answer.

George, not one used to having to wait for answers, said, “That’s ok, just nod or shake your head. Is it because it took you so long to change a string in the early days that people started clapping slowly?”

Eric shrugged noncommittally. Surely he’d dodged this question the other day? He hadn’t heard anything of it since. And as much as he longed to show the older man exactly how he’d been given the nickname, he wasn’t entirely ready to expose that side of his life to him. He respected George. Hell, he loved the man! And really didn’t want to ruin their friendship.

\-------------------------------------------------

George wasn’t convinced with the non-answer, so excusing himself from the table, he grabbed a napkin and pen and went to sit in the lounge, missing the sigh of relief that the younger man emitted.

Perhaps the key was in the letters themselves...

Slowhand, Hand Owls, Hand Slow, Hand Lows, Hands Owl, Hands Low, Lad Shown, Land Hows,  
Land Show, Lands How, Lands Who, And Howls, Sand Howl, Lash Down, Shawl Nod, Shawl Don  
Lawns Doh, Lawns Hod, Lawn Dohs, Lawn Shod, Lawn Hods, Awns Hold, Sawn Hold, Swan Hold

‘Swan Hold’, how did Eric hold his guitar again? Decision made again, he went back into the dining room.

“Hey Eric,” he asked. Eric looked up warily from his half-eaten dinner. “Do you want to eat the rest of that?”

“Not really. Why? Do you want it?”

“No, it’s alright. Wanna go upstairs for a jam?”

“Sure, be there in a minute.”

Finishing off his wine glass and grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge, he climbed the stairs up into George’s room for their impromptu session.

\---------------------------------------------------------

While they were playing, Eric noticed that George was focussing very hard on his left hand. More intently than usual, that is. He appreciated that George liked his playing so much, and got a little thrill every time he could see the evidence of just how much George liked it peeking out from under the man’s guitar, but the staring was becoming a little unnerving and he began to find that the attention was making him uncharacteristically mess up.

Losing patience and feeling decidedly uncomfortable, he stopped playing abruptly, “Is there something wrong, George?”

“What, no. Of course not!” the older man replied.

“It’s just that you seem a little preoccupied with my hand, is something wrong with it? You haven’t played a note in the last 18 bars.”

“Oh, I was just watching your hand holding the guitar. Would you call that a ‘swan hold’?” he asked, looking up into the Eric’s eyes for a sign of recognition. None was forthcoming, however.

“I dunno. I don’t think so. You’ve been acting really strange lately George, is there something I could help with?” he asked earnestly, quite concerned about the ex-Beatle’s behaviour.

“Yes!” George exclaimed exasperatedly, flopping onto his back on the bed, throwing his arms in the air, “You could tell me how in hell you got that fucking nickname, Eric!”

The outburst from the usually placid and calm guitarist shocked Eric for a moment, but he soon regained his composure. Predatorily approaching the older man lying prostrate on the bed, he bent down over him. He dropped his voice to a low murmur in George’s ear. “Are you sure you want to know exactly how I got the nickname, Georgie?”

The man beneath him swallowed visibly and as he was unable to make a dignified sound with his vocal chords, nodded his head in the affirmative.

“You saw me in the shower this morning, didn’t you?”

Again George nodded.

“I wasn’t going slow then, was I?”

The older man shook his head.

Trailing his hand down George’s side, he let it rest just to the left of the bulge straining against the seam of his denim jeans. Flicking George’s nipple with the fingers of his right hand, he began rubbing ever increasing circles on the man’s inner thigh. As they brushed lightly over his cock, George let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding and groaned.

Eric couldn’t believe the effect he was having on the man writhing and moaning beneath him. Not wanting to waste time, he made quick work of divesting him of his shirt, and unbuttoning his jeans. George hadn’t been wearing underwear and Eric pulled George’s cock out of his jeans. Leaning in to whisper in the man’s ear, he said, “I may go fast on myself Georgie, but on others it’s a different matter entirely.”

Saying this, he slowly grazed his fingers up the length of the shaft, gently massaging the pre-cum into the head. He began an agonizingly slow rhythmic pumping of George’s cock, which had the man’s lower body straining up to meet each fisting movement of his hand.

Eric smiled inwardly as he licked the shell of George’s ear, eliciting another moan from the usually staid guitarist. Still fisting the man’s cock, he moved down, so he was kneeling at the foot of the bed, where he joined his lips and tongue with his hand, still moving at that achingly slow pace. George moaned loudly and Eric was glad for the first time that George had a policy of locking the door while they were jamming to avoid outside ‘distractions’.

Eric began moving his mouth down the shaft at a faster speed than his hand was currently stroking at, for which George was very thankful. As he felt the tongue and lips descend again and again, a quarter of an inch further down each time, it was all he could do not to fist his hands in Eric’s hair and force the man’s mouth lower. He settled for tossing his head back and groaning as Eric’s hand began massaging his balls. When Eric moaned around his shaft, George could have sworn he saw stars. Eric swallowed around the head, before lowering his mouth right to the base and sucking forcefully. At this, George’s hands did leave their place currently fisting the sheets underneath them and held Eric’s head in place as he came forcefully, his body trembling with the aftershocks.

Eric did his best not to gag and swallowed the hot liquid jets down. Nuzzling into the base of George’s cock, he cleaned it off gently, before kissing its tip and moving his body back up to lie alongside the older guitarist’s. George moved his palm to cup Eric’s face in his hand and brought their mouths together in a kiss. He could taste himself in Eric’s mouth and closed his eyes, revelling in the sensation.

As Eric smiled against his lips, George thought that maybe there was something to be said for speaking one’s mind, damning the consequences. Next mission: Why was Pete Townshend’s nickname ‘Bone’, anyway.


End file.
